Easter Sunday
by KaizokuShojo
Summary: A small gift to my fellow Christian Sherlockians. Sherlock Holmes contemplates the meaning of Easter Sunday. This is the same ficlet that was PMed during Easter and posted on DeviantART.


_**Easter Sunday**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: The honour of creatorship of the Sherlock Holmes genre belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

_**KS: Welcome to another of my fics! This was a small thing I wrote up and sent to my Christian friends for Easter. (If you didn't get it, and you're one of my Christian friends, then I'm sorry, I either didn't know you then or forgot. XD) **_

_**A while after I sent it out via PM, I posted it on deviantART. bcbdrums saw it there, and said I should post it here, so… Even though it's well past Easter, I'm posting it here now. XDD **_

_**I hope you like it.**_

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It's been about 1862 years now since the event that causes this day each year to be celebrated. I think, probably, it has lost the meaning with most of the people that celebrate it. As I smoke my morning pipe and look down out of my window, I see many people, dressed in their finest, on their way to church.

Many of them go only on this day each year. Many of them will sleep or daydream, or think of their own self-righteousness during the sermon.

Their minds are very likely not on the death and resurrection that occurred in order to save their very souls. Mine most certainly was.

It was now a little less than a year since I had 'returned to life' myself. My absence had been three years, and my friend had not been any less stunned to see me I dare say than Jesus' disciples to see him. Both had thought their master and friend had died for sure at the hands of enemies.

I was hardly as great as to walk on water, let alone truly rise from the dead, however. I deserved no such servitude as I got from my friend when I came back to London.

My mind was currently unoccupied by a case and free to wander. The gaily dressed people that I observed below my rooms turned my mind onto the fact that to-day was, in fact, Easter Sunday.

A man…the Son of God…had died by crucifixion, and three days later had risen from the dead. The death had been payment for the sins of mankind…the resurrection the victory over death and guarantee of our own eternal life after our sins were paid for.

But I could not understand.

My mind had grappled with the problem all morning long, and I still could not comprehend it. I refilled my now extinguished pipe, and relit it.

Why would God's son die for our sins? He had never sinned, and we were far from deserving such a chance at repentance.

We were His creation, therefore we were important to Him. He cared for us immensely. So much so that he gave the greatest sacrifice. That much I understood.

But I could not grasp this intense care, this devotion, this…love. Love for people who had and would betray him. Love for people who hadn't even been born yet. Love for people who might never love him in return.

It just did not make any sort of sense.

This…unfailing, unconditional love. Why?

Just then, Watson came in through the sitting-room door.

"Good morning, Holmes," he said cheerfully. "Happy Easter."

I waved him off, muttering a short reply, and turned to sit at the table. He likewise sat, lifting the lid from the tray of breakfast I had already called for—I had heard him as he had awoken and began to dress, and had duly rang for the landlady to begin preparing the meal. I poured a cup of coffee for myself, and took up a piece of toast.

"What's wrong, Holmes?" Watson asked, seeing my face.

I wondered how he could actually be observant at the most inopportune times.

"Nothing," said I, stirring milk into my cup.

"If you say so," my friend said as he began to eat, noting I was not in a mood for conversation.

Watson became occupied with reading the more popular sections of the newspaper, and I studied him. He was a staunch, loyal, excellent companion. No one could ever ask for better—especially no one such as myself. He was ideal. I did not deserve him, either.

It was hard to believe that just two days ago, we were occupied in a case that nearly cost us our lives.

The man, a foul blackmailer named Jones, had one bullet left in the chamber of his revolver, and was determined to take one of us out. He was convinced that he should shoot Watson, thinking — quite rightly — that it would hurt me more. But I put myself before him, demanding that I be the one he shot. Thankfully, a few members of the official force appeared just in time, and took Jones out.

Something clicked in my mind.

Sacrifice.

I had been entirely ready and more than willing to give my life to make sure that Watson lived.

Though, I could not yet quite grasp the entire concept, I felt that now I at least had a hold on one of the corners.

I was still far from understanding Love. But I was one step closer.

Love was not afraid of sacrifice.

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**KS: Thanks for reading; don't forget to review!**


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